


Reputation

by Loverlylo



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms, A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Celebrity, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Alternate Universe - Rock Band, F/M, Jon and Sansa Are Not Related, Pop Star Sansa Stark, Rock Star Jon Snow, musician au
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-10-10
Updated: 2019-11-04
Packaged: 2020-12-07 10:20:40
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 5,306
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20974289
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Loverlylo/pseuds/Loverlylo
Summary: Sansa Stark, pop princess, had an image problem. The string of failed high publicity romances was bad, but combining it with her doe eyed teen girl sound was worse for someone who’s 22.The she failed to show up for an appearance with her current boyfriend Ramsay. No one saw her for two months, until she was spotted playing groupie for a Northern rock band, The Night’s Watch, fronted by extremely attractive veteran Jon Snow.Now, her reputation has been destroyed, and while telling the world about her abusive exs, slimy manager, and long history with Jon would save it, that would also make her the victim. The fact is, she’s tired of playing the sweet little thing no one actually respects. People want Sansa to be the bad girl? She has no objections.





	1. You And Me Would Be A Big Conversation

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sansa killed her old self. Now, to ensure she stays dead.

**Sansa Stark Spotted After Two Month Sabbatical**

_ Sansa Stark. Love her or hate her, you definitely know about her. Daughter of Northern folk legend Ned Stark and his wife, former model Catelyn Tully, she rose to fame at 16, winning over hearts with her sweet songs about first kisses, heartbreaks, and fairy tales. Since those early days, she has become one of Westeros’s most well-known stars, the girl next door to rival Margaery Tyrell’s queen bee. Over the last six years, she’s put down the guitar and moved towards bubblegum pop, but her music always retained the sweet, earnestness that made her famous… even when it became clear that Sansa herself was far less romantic than her music.  _

_ Her personal life has been a string of failed high-profile relationships, starting with acting as Loras Tyrell’s last beard, before moving onto teen idol Joffrey Lannister, footballers Sandor Clegane and Harry Hardying, dancer Robert Arryn, MMA fighter Theon Greyjoy,actor Ramsay Bolton, and those are just the highlights. All these relationships reportedly ended due to Sansa’s high-strung demands, with her washing her hands of each boy before moving onto the next. Her dumping of Ramsay, however, is extra infamous, as she did so by failing to appear at the Westerosi Choice Awards where she and Ramsay had been nominated for best couple. In fact, Sansa hadn’t been seen in public since. Not even her label knew where she was. _

_ Until now, that is. Last night, Sansa was spotted at a small venue in the North, at a concert by The Night’s Watch. The four-person rock outfit is known for a) their critical acclaim by the Northern music press, despite having yet to release any music, and b) their devastatingly attractive frontman, combat veteran Jon Snow. It looks like that last one is what pulled Sansa in, as she’s seen wrapped in Jon’s arms in several photos. Further investigation reveals that a ruby-haired woman has been spotted in his apartment and at every venue on The Night’s Watch’s tour for two months. It appears that Sansa Stark walked away from a loving boyfriend and thriving career to play groupie in the Northern wilds. Well, Sansa, at least he’s cute. _

\---

Jon Snow threw his tablet across the van in disgust. How could anyone write that trash about Sansa? Portray her as some vapid heartbreaker? She was the sweetest person he’d ever known, with a smile like sunshine and hair like fire. 

His tablet came flying back at him, courtesy of Tormund. “What the fuck, Snow? It’s hard enough sleeping wedged in here without things getting fucking thrown at my head.” The drummer cuffed Jon around the head, but Jon’s thoughts were still on Sansa.

Jon rubbed at his hair absently, trying not to move and wake the others. “Sorry. It looks like someone spotted Sansa last night, and now the fucking tabloids are--”

“-- wondering what the hell Westeros’s princess of sugar and true love is doing bumming around with a bunch of angry nobodies?” Tormund asked cheekily. “Gee, I wonder why that could be. Did they name the band?”

He glared at Tormund. “Yes, Night’s Watch got mentioned by name, right after calling Sans a high-string slut who’s only interested in my body. Now shut up.”

There was a sudden shifting in Jon’s lap. He quickly pulled his hand away from the red hair it had been tangled in as Sansa stirred into consciousness. “Mmh. Oh, gods.” She bolted upright and settled between Jon and Tormund. “I cannot believe I fell asleep in your lap again.”

The burly drummer wrapped his arm around her in an affectionate hug. “Sansa girl, I don’t think anyone in this van is going to complain about having a stunning woman like yourself face-down against their cock.”

“Actually, I’d prefer that not happen” Samwell Tarly, guitarist wunderkind, called out from the driver’s seat. “As I have a very insecure girlfriend. Nothing personal, Sans.”

“Same here.” Chimed in Gendry Waters, the Night’s Watch’s bassist, from the front seat.

Jon scoffed at Gendry. “Since when do you have a girlfriend, Waters?”

Gendry fumbled with the notebook in his hand before cranking around to glare at Jon. “Alright, so she’s not my girlfriend yet. But I’m getting there, and photos of  _ the  _ Westerosi sweetheart supposedly sucking me off are not going to help with that, no offense.”

Sansa chuckled, an honest one rather than the fake laugh Jon saw in all her interviews and press junkets. “It’s fine. It’s not exactly news that no woman wants their man around a cover girl. Now, please tell me I understood Jon’s angry muttering correctly, and the press finally spotted me?”

Filled with renewed anger, Jon gave her his tablet. “Every tabloid is running the news that sweet little Sansa Stark is now the groupie of a rock band no one’s heard of. Your time as the golden girl is officially over.”

She slumped back into the seat as she scanned the headlines. “Thank god. I was afraid I’d have to call them myself.” Sansa flashed Jon a smile, one that warmed him from the pit of his stomach to far lower. “I hope you boys have sunglasses, because Deepwood Motte is going to be a crash course in superstardom.”

Jon watched as Sansa pulled out her makeup bag and began carefully applying her eyeliner, utterly unphased by the vehicle’s repeated sideways jolts. It was hard to reconcile this Sansa with the one who’d turned up at his door two months ago.

\--

_ 2 Months Earlier  _

Jon frowned at his guitar. The chord progression was refusing to come together the way he wanted, and if he took more time in rehearsal tomorrow to fuck about, Tormund would probably kill him.

His therapist had recommended he resume playing, suggesting a creative outlet might help his PTSD. He hadn’t been sure about that, but figured joining a band might help pay his rent. And, to his surprise, being able to turn his nightmares and flashbacks into something communicable had made the demons quieter, to quote Uncle Ned. 

A year ago, he was a vet with an honorable discharge and no plans. Now, he was the leader of The Night’s Watch, who were getting ready to go on their first tour, and see if they could turn the adoration of the White Harbor music scene into a record deal. But only if this fucking song stopped sounding like  _ utter _ shit.

A knock on the door interrupted his thoughts. He hadn’t ordered takeout, had he? Confused, he opened the door, and immediately became far more so. Sansa Stark, Westeros’s little sister was standing there, soaked to the skin and shaking like a leaf. She was wearing a scarf, sunglasses, and a Direwolves FC cap, under which her hair was still that horrific muddy brown, the very sight of which made Jon angry every time he passed the celebrity magazines at the supermarket, but it was definitely her.

Sansa drew a shaky breath. “I’m sorry to show up like this, but I needed to go somewhere no one would look for me. Can I crash for the night?” 

Still unable to fully process her presence, Jon moved aside. He managed to unstick his tongue as she pulled off her jacket. “Gods, yes. You can stay as long as you need. But why are you…”

Jon faltered as she removed her scarf. There were bruises on her porcelain skin. Handprints around her neck, to be more precise. Fury the likes of which he’d never felt filled Jon. “Sansa.”

She sighed and plopped onto his sofa. “I’m fine, Jon. Really.”

Red licked at the edges of Jons sight. “Did your boyfriend do that? Ramsay or whatever the fuck his name is?”

“Jon-“

“Don’t ‘Jon’ me!” He yelled. “He tried to kill you! I get why you’re not on the red carpet somewhere, playing the doting girlfriend, but I’m stuck on why are you’re also not at the police station, getting the fucker arrested!” He reached out to her, but Sansa pulled away, grabbing a pillow to hold in front of her like a shield.

“Because he wasn’t the first!” Sansa cried. A harsh silence filled the room as Jon watched Sansa braid the fringe of his couch cushions. “Joffrey, Sandor, Harry a little, Robbie didn’t hit, per se, but he threw things a lot. I’m fine. I just needed to go somewhere he couldn’t find me while I form a plan to get him out of my life.”

Wordlessly, Jon walked to his kitchen, grabbed his good whiskey, and drank three pulls without stopping for breath. He returned to his sofa, bottle in hand, and wrapped himself around Sansa protectively. “Any of them touch you again, I’ll kill them. I swear on the Old Gods and the new.”

“I might take you up on that.” Sansa snagged the bottle from him, taking a swallow. “Damn, that’s smooth. Way better than the crap we had last time we got drunk together. You remember that?” She grinned at him, a real smile, for the first time since she’d arrived.

“The two of us, going through your dad’s old records and arguing over who was better, Ashara or Arthur Dayne? I remember. What I remember better is your dad coming into his study, finding us passed out, and making us recategorize his entire record collection hungover.” Jon reclaimed the whiskey and took another drink, telling himself that there was no extra taste from Sansa’s mouth.

Sansa grabbed a blanket and burrowed into it, the hellish experience having faded into a warm memory. “Dad had the best punishments. Or the worst. Did I ever apologize to you for being such a stuck up bitch that summer, before my album came out?”

He wrinkled his nose affectionately. “No, but I never apologized for being a self-righteous prick who dismissed your music because you wrote it for girls like yourself, so I’d say we’re square.”

The rest of the evening had passed similarly, Jon and Sansa trading whiskey and memories in a pleasant haze. The next morning, Jon barely remembered, other than the highlights: Sansa’s manager knew about Ramsay, and had intended Sansa’s new role of “tragic victim” to carry her forward instead of letting her music grow. She’d fired him, formulated a plan, won over his bandmates, and fixed his song in a single morning. At that point, Jon realized the only reason Sansa didn’t run the world was because she didn’t really want to.

\--

That plan was now coming to fruition. Sansa had explained to it him as follows: She had, under the management of her uncle Petyr, been shoehorned into the role of the sweet, starry-eyed girl. While his plan of extending that role’s shelf-life via domestic abuse was not the answer, something did need to change. Therefore, step 1: Sansa goes off the grid and lets Ramsay build the narrative of the heartbroken boy. Step 2: She is seen following The Night’s Watch on their tour. Step 3: Profit. 

Actually, she phrased it as “use the subsequent scandal and publicity to forge a new direction in my career and/or get a record deal”. But same difference. She practically glowed with excitement as she fussed with her hair, teasing it until she was satisfied that all her fussing made her look relaxed and devil-may-care. She gave it a final ruffle and turned to face him. “So, think I woke up like this?”

Her red hair was artfully mussed, her eyeliner carefully smudged, and flecks of glitter trailed down her neck into the cleavage Jon was trying very hard not to stare at. “If I hadn’t seen you get ready, I’d swear you were at a club all night.” 

“Fabulous!” She tossed her mirror back into her bag and began rifling through it. “Where the fuck is my phone?”

With a sigh, Jon handed her phone to Sansa. The fact that she managed to repeatedly lose her phone in a small van both impressed and terrified him. “Breathe, Sans.”

“Sorry.” She apologized sheepishly. “Just out of practice being picked apart by the vultures.” She pointed out the window at the crowd of paparazzi swarming the small club they were set to play at. All the boys turned to look at Sansa, terror in their eyes. Jon cleared his throat. “Sansa, sweetling, I’m thrilled your plan to restore your career is working.”

“Fucking hell, Sans! The everloving fuck are we supposed to do with that?” Gendry had a panicked look in his eyes, mirrored by Sam. Tormund looked like he’d been hit by a truck. Jon felt as if he’d rather go back into combat with nothing but a salad fork then face them. Sansa, on the other hand, was preening. 

“Deep breaths, boys.” She looked at them, blue eyes sparkling with mirth at their trepidation. “Rule one: sunglasses. I’m skipping them, but I’m used to the flash. You’re not, don’t try to muscle through it, Tormund, you’ll walk into a wall. Rule two:. The paparazzi don’t exist. Don’t argue, don’t flip them off, don’t even breath in their direction. Rule three: When screening your calls, start with the agents, put the labels off you have representation, and run any interview requests past me. I’ll help you weed out the complete scum. But most important--”

Sansa leaned across and opened the door, waiting until the press had caught sight of her before climbing onto Jon’s lap. Pausing there, she reached behind him to grab something from the back, Jon automatically grabbing her waist to keep her from toppling ass over teakettle out of the van. She sat back, having succeeded in her goal of snagging Jon’s leather jacket. Still on his lap, Sansa pulled it on. It swam on her, but she looked fantastic. Moreover, she looked like someone who had been branded as the property of Jon Snow, and was perfectly fine with that. Jon certainly was. “Fake it ‘til you make it.” 

With a glint of satisfaction in her eye, she clambered out of the car, Sam, Gendry, and Tormund following her lead. Jon emerged last, and immediately wrapped an arm around Sansa. “Showtime.”


	2. The Old Sansa Can't Come To The Phone Right Now. Why? Oh, Because She's dead.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sansa killed her old self. Now, to ensure she stays dead.

“Showtime.”

Jon’s Northern brogue warmed Sansa to the core as he pulled her into his side. She had no idea why it sounded so sexy. She’d dated Northern guys; she grew up in the North, for fuck’s sake. Jon’s low murmur should remind her of her dad, not soak her panties. On the plus side, it meant there was little acting required for her role of “besotted hanger-on”. 

She and Jon walked towards the club that she assumed was somewhere behind the wall of lowlife photographers. The flashes started going off, but Sansa ignored them with ease. The constant cries of “Sansa! Sansa, over here! Smile, Sansa!” faded into a pleasant cacophony, one that she’d been shocked to realize she missed during her sabbatical. Apparently, Sansa liked being adored. 

They manage to push through the crowd and get into the venue with little difficulty. 

The only one anyone had any real interest in was Sansa, and Jon by association. The Watch members all dropped onto the nearest piece of furniture, except Sam, who just collapsed on the floor.

“Fucking hell, I think one of them grabbed at my dick.” Gendry gasped. “Who does that?” 

Sansa walked over the bar and hopped up onto it, amused by their overreactions. Honestly,  _ boys _ . “It was probably Handsy Rod. He’ll grope anyone’s anything, except for Margaery Tyrell.”

She was met with four questions looks, wondering how the sultry performer kept a pervert’s hands off her. “Three years ago, he got a finger up her cunt, so she broke it and told him if he did it again, she’d cut his throat with her nail file.”

Tormund gave a mock salute from his position slumped over the host stand. “A woman after my own heart.”

“Not unless we go platinum.” Sam called from his prone position, though slightly muffled by his face full of tile.

“Oh, don’t be ridiculous. Margaery’s a superstar, she doesn’t have to worry about dating up anymore.” Sansa rolled her eyes. “Get yourself a decent hairbrush and trim the beard, Tormund, and you’d have as good a chance as anyone.”

A door opened behind them, and a frazzled middle-aged woman entered. “By the gods, I’m so sorry about this. I’m Millie, the manager here. They just showed up this morning, and they’re not on our land, so I can’t do anything.” Millie pulled her hair into a haphazard ponytail. “I just . . . we’re a small venue. We don’t get paparazzi here.”

With an internal sigh, Sansa slipped into damage control mode, ready to placate the woman, only for Jon to beat her to it.

“It’s fine, Millie. I promise. Sansa warned us that this would happen, but I selfishly insisted on her coming along with us.” He walked over to her, giving her that self-deprecating smile Sansa had seen far too much of in her life. “The only blame here is on me.” 

Fixing her most adoring grin in place, Sansa popped of the bartop and joined Jon. “Jon, we’ve been through this. You insisted on nothing, I wanted to come and support you. I am so sorry, Millie. The good news is that they've gotten their shots of me, so they should leave. And if they don’t, call the cops on them for impeding access to your business. In the meantime, let me order lunch for you and your staff, as an apology.”

\---

Two hours later, Sansa’s predictions had come true. The press had left, the van was unloaded, and free Dornish takeout had smoothed over any ruffled feelings. Well, that, and the increase of calls asking for tickets to tonight’s Night’s Watch show. It went from half-attended to sold out in about 40 minutes. 

Sansa had watched as the boys set up, feeling slightly guilty that she had done nothing to help, but playing roadie wasn’t an option anymore, and the boys were all rather fastidious about their instruments. And honestly, it was rather nice, watching Jon heft an amp, his arm muscles clearly rippling underneath his tight t-shirt and his luscious curls starting to escape their messy bun. She could imagine walking up to Jon, pulling his hair loose and running her hands through the heavy, silken mass, maybe giving a tug as Jon’s hot mouth worked over her neck...

With a jolt, she pulled herself out of the highly inappropriate reverie she found herself in. She checked her phone, and saw a text from Lyra Flowers, asking for a phone call ASAP. Grinning fondly, Sansa quietly moved back to the dressing rooms. There was no room for error with this call.

Once she was sure no one had seen her slip away, Sansa returned the call. With a loud squeal, Margaery Tyrell’s voice filled her ear. “You magnificent bitch! I know you said you had a plan, but this is beyond my expectations. And the boy toy is a complete babe. I’ll gladly take him off your hands, if, you know, you need a little more press.”

Sansa gave a wry chuckle. “I don’t think he’d be interested, Marge. He’s into the laid-back, salt of the earth type, not us glamour queens. He’s only putting up with this shit because of Robb.”

“Right”. Margaery’s skepticism was audible. “He’s pretending to the world at large that he’s screwing your brains out because Robb is his best friend. Makes perfect sense. That must also be why all the tabloid photos have him looking at you like you’re a goddamned steak.”

“He’s saving me from utter ruin because I’m his best friend’s little sister.” Sansa slumped into a chair. “This is no different than when he took me to homecoming after my date dumped me the day before.”

“Isn’t that what you wrote “Today Was A Fairytale” about?” Margaery asked.

“That has nothing to do with this, and I told you that in confidence.” Sansa wasn’t ashamed of her early songs, but sometimes it almost hurt to think about the starry-eyed girl she’d once been.

“Okay, we’re going to table the fact that this man is apparently your personal knight in shining armor, partially because that chat needs wine, but mostly because I do have an actual point to this phone call, “ Margaery informed her tartly. “ which is ‘thank the gods you reappeared, because I got you a present! It’s a manager’.”

Sansa wondered if the hairspray had reduced Margaery to Loras’s mental level. “That’s sweet, honey, and I appreciate the offer, but I can’t hire a Rosebush manager. I need our rivalry right now. That reminds me.” Grabbing her phone, she sent Margaery a demo. “Sent you a new Alayne Stone track. “Murder On The Dance Floor”. Strings, synthpop, vicious undercurrent; you’ll love it.”

“And just when I need a new single. You’re an angel. And the manager is not under Rosebush. She was Renly’s manager before he officially joined the family. We offered her a job, but she likes running her own shop. We’ve directed clients her way before.” Margaery said. “She’s already there. You’re welcome.”

Suddenly, Jon popped his head in. “Sans, someone’s looking for you. Says she’s a manager sent by Lyra Flowers, so I let her in. Maybe you could ask Margaery if she could send us a manager, too.” He dropped into the chair next to her.

With a smirk, Sansa put her call on speaker. “Thanks, Marg. You’re a doll. She worked with anyone big?”

“Well, she’s overseeing Jaime Lannister’s comeback. Does that count?” The tinny voice answered with far more self-satisfaction that should be possible through such shitty speakers. 

Sansa could only gape at the idea of working with the genius who had turned Jaime Lannister from a playboy hack into a serious musician. Jon grinned at her amazement. “Margaery, love, I think you broke her.”

Margaery’s voice turned sharp. “Who are you, and why do you know about us?”

I’m Jon Snow,” he answered wryly, “And Sansa trusts me. Plus, I know all her secrets, even the one about her first crush on--”

“Don’t you dare.” Sansa cut him off. “Not unless you want the Sevenmas sweater pictures shown to the world.”

“Me and Robb looked adorable. Did you ever call Wymar Royce when you turned 18, or is your love remanded to that creepy shrine you built?” Jon flashed a shit-eating grin at her.

“I don’t remember, but I do remember your obsession with Val Winters. I wonder if I have her number anywhere.” Sansa snarked back.

“Alright, it sounds like you two have some very important flirting to do, so I’m going to hang up and remind you to always use condoms.” Margaery laughed as the call ended.

“Bye, sweetie. Badmouth me to the world at large.” Sansa hung up and grinned at Jon. “Gods, I love her. How’s your day going?”

Jon gave a wry chuckle. “Oh, boring. I went through the messages left for us, and guess who wants me to call her about management. Dacey Mormont.”

Sansa looked over. “Is she related to Joer?”

“His granddaughter. Said she’s been talking us up to him for 4 months, but he held back because he didn’t want accusations of nepotism. But now, if he doesn’t move, we have other offers.” Jon reached over and clapped Sansa on the shoulder. The warmth from his hand spread, and she wanted nothing more than to cuddle into it.

“Well, I’ll leave you to it. Good luck.” With that, Sansa stood and returned to the main area of the bar. She braced herself and schooled her face into a blank slate. It’s not that she didn’t trust Margaery, but. . . Uncle Petyr had been recommended by someone she loved, and that didn’t work out. She turned the corner, and immediately spotted the manager.

She was tall, six feet at least, with short cropped blond hair, a wide nose, broad shoulders, and a suit that looked like it was bought from the men’s department. With a proper tailor and some professional styling help, Sansa was sure this woman would be striking, if not beautiful. As it was, she was a plain woman with gorgeous blue eyes, and she had a feeling she liked it that way. All the better to place emphasis on her clients. The woman glanced up from her papers, than stood and held out a hand.

“Good afternoon, Miss Stark. I’m Brienne Tarth, owner of Evenfall Entertainment Management. A mutual acquaintance informed me you were looking for a new manager, and thought I’d serve you well.” The handshake was firm and short, professionalism radiating from every inch of Brienne.

Sansa offered a polite smile. She liked her so far, but it wouldn’t do to give the game away. “Yes, she called me. She also mentioned you turned down the chance to work for Rosebush. Why?”

Brienne gave her an evaluating look. “Because Rosebush’s business is creating facades, and I find I do my best work in pushing for my clients to work with a more genuine expression of themselves. I’ll still hide your secrets and play the games, but I’ll never pigeonhole you to make my job easier.”

“Is that what you’re doing for Jaime Lannister?” Sansa couldn’t help but ask.

Brienne stiffened at the mention of Jaime. “I don’t discuss my clients with anyone. Even, no, especially, other clients.”

“First test passed.” Sansa replied. “But now for the real question. I burned my entire image to the ground in a desperate attempt to regain control over my career. My next few moves will determine my professional reputation for at least two years. Ms. Tarth, what do you think I should do?”

“Professionally or personally?” asked Ms. Tarth, apparently not thrown by Sansa’s pass/fail job interview.

She chewed it over for a second, before making a decision. “Hmm. Let’s do both.”

“Well, working from the assumption that your goal is to leave your image as the Westerosi sweetheart behind,” Ms. Tarth started. As Sansa’s nod, she continued. “I’d say you’re off to a good start, throwing over a sickeningly sweet boyfriend for a dark yet talented rocker. The inevitable revelation that Jon Snow is a childhood friend will help win back your original fans; it helps temper the apparent flightiness and plays against your long list of ex’s by insinuating he’s the one, and you’ve been trying to fill the hole he left.”

“Glad to hear it.” Sansa remarked.

“As to your next step, I’d make sure you get some of Jon’s dirt on you. His story-- absent father, drug-addict mother, practically adopted by his best friend's family, served in the military, returned to music in an attempt to cope with PTSD-- it’s good, marketable, but you run the risk of becoming the ball of sunshine in his dark life. Remind the world that you’re not playing dress-up, ‘Eddard Stark’s daughter’ isn’t a pedigree, but a statement of who raised you. Get seen playing with Night’s Watch, fighting about music, own up to hangovers, and tell the wild stories you couldn’t before. Authenticate.”

“Make it clear all I’m doing is abandoning an old image, not crafting a new one”. Sansa surmised.

“Precisely. Now, do you want to continue right into a new album or branch out into acting, modeling?” Brienne queried.

“Music is it for me. I’m a half-decent model, but I can’t act for shit. You know what I do when I’m stressed about my music? I write music for other people under a pen name.” Sansa confessed. Brienne’s straightforward nature had a way of putting her at ease, particularly since Petyr had perpetually flattered. 

Brienne smiled at her. “That’s excellent. Is coming forward with that an option?”

“Given that Alayne Stone’s biggest hits were for Margaery Tyrell, not right now.” she answered.

“Shame, although that rivalry is a masterpiece: all the press of a real rivalry, with absolute control and occasional breaks. In that case, I’d say do a movie soundtrack. It’ll keep your name in the press, introduce a new sound, buy you time so you don’t need to rush a new album, and get you a real hit, all without needing to promote it.” Brienne said succinctly. “Now, onto the personal.”

Sansa leaned back in her chair. “Hit me with it, Ms. Tarth.”

“Make sure you have something you want to do, rather than just not being Sansa sweetie. I’ve learned from experience that it’s very easy to work against something, but without a goal to work towards, you’ll get lost and end up nowhere.” Brienne offered her a hand to hold, a small gesture of friendship that Sansa had never seen offered so sincerely in her line of work. 

“Ms. Tarth, you’re hired. I’ll have my agent draw up a contract and messenger it over tomorrow.” Sansa said with a grin.

“Backdate it to today, and I’ll start putting out feelers and get the bartender to record and post your assistance helping The Night’s Watch run their soundcheck. And call me Brienne.” her new manager replied. “Now, if you don’t mind, one of my other clients is a toddler.” With that, she picked up her phone, screen full of ignored texts, and made a call.

As Sansa stood, she could swear Jaime Lannister’s voice was pouring out of Brienne’s phone. “Wench! Finally done ignoring me? What was so important that you had to rush the ass-end of nowhere when I needed your opinions?”

“I have other clients, you insufferable man.” She heard Brienne whisper harshly, though without any real heat to it. She sent an email to Yohn Royce about Brienne’s contract, backdated, and nearly walked into Gendry. 

She hadn’t gotten to know him as well as she’d gotten to know Samwell and Tormund, partially because the bassist was the quiet by nature, but also because he spent all his time trying and somehow failing to win over his new neighbor, a martial artist known only as Arry. Sansa had no idea how this happened, as Gendry was built as fuck and a complete sweetheart, but some people apparently have no taste. 

“Sorry, Sans, didn’t see you.” He mumbled.

“It’s fine, Gendry.” She reassured him. “Jon told me about Mormont Management calling. Congrats. My dad’s been with them for years, Robb too. They’ll treat you right.”

He scoffed. “Yeah, if they agree to take us on. They’ve got some genius talent scout who's coming tonight, and it’s all on her if they represent us.” The notebook he always carried was currently being bent within an inch of its life, and the anxiety coming off him was palpable. 

“Breathe, Gendry. You’ll have a full house, and you’re a kickass band. “Drowning In Ice” is a showstopper. But, grab Tormund and Samwell, I’ll grab Jon, and we can just jam before the show, work out all your nerves.” Sansa suggested in her most guileless voice.

Gendry saw right through it. “Your new manager’s going to have the bouncer record us and put it online, isn’t she?”

“Bartender, and so what? Stage fright worked through, and press for everybody.” Sansa pointed out. “Now, get the boys, I’m feeling ragey.”

\---

The next day, footage of Sansa Stark singing a pure rock version of ‘Head Like A Hole”, recorded during a sound check from her boyfriend’s tour went viral. The three main takeaways were agreed upon as 1) sweet little Sansa Stark could rock the fuck out, 2) her boyfriend’s band, The Night’s Watch, was pretty damn good, and 3) Sansa and Jon Snow were clearly four seconds from screwing on the stage. 

It’s that last one that some journalist decided to point out to the captain and star forward of the Direwolves FC, Robb Stark. 

Everyone who saw the footage of that agreed it could’ve gone better.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Real Songs mentioned:
> 
> Today Was A Fairytale- Taylor Swift
> 
> Murder On The Dance Floor- Sophie Ellis-Bextor
> 
> Head Like A Hole- Nine Inch Nails (Original), Miley Cyrus (Cover)


End file.
